close your eyes (you'll still be able to see)
by LuminaCarina
Summary: (He's not really dead. He's just a bit… misplaced.) dead!Evan


**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter**

(He's not really dead. He's just a bit… misplaced.)

#

So alright, they didn't win the war. They lost, spectacularly at that, but he supposed it was alright, in the end. Only, it wasn't.

This must be some special sort of hell, he thought, made just for him. Because there was rubble all around, and Wilkes was lying in a pool of his own blood. (Evan hated the colour of blood – odd, for a Death Eater, but he had never been able to stomach it in large quantities. It had made him a subject of mockery among his comrades, especially so when that one muggleborn had diagnosed him as 'mildly haemophobic,' but there was nothing Evan could do about it.)

And… there. His own body, black robes and blood-red hair and all. (Wasn't it funny, that his hair was the exact same shade of red he hated?) Maybe he could go back into it, he tried to convince himself, if he could just sink into that flesh, then he would - what? Go back to life? Well, guess what, Evan? Life doesn't work that way. Never did, never would. You learned all about life's unfairness way back as a kid, when Bella had the cooks serve you your pet rabbit for dinner.

But still. Evan stared at his (former) body intently. Was it truly dead? Couldn't he just… you know? Well, it's worth a shot, if nothing else.

With all the graveness he could muster, which was quite a lot considering the situation, he tried to lie on his body. He sunk. ''Whoa!'' he immediately shot away from it. Instead of taking control of his body again, he had floated right through it. That was… something to remember. And also really scary. Yeah, scary worked alright.

''I really hate you right now,'' he sighed. He didn't know who he was talking to; his body, maybe, or that bastard Moody, or perhaps even his deceased Lord. Hell, maybe he was even talking to himself! They all had a hand in his current situation.

His situation being… what, exactly? He didn't feel like a ghost, but then, would anyone be able to tell if they were ghosts? Professor Binns certainly hadn't noticed it when he died. Maybe Evan was like that, taking time to figure it all out. Maybe the knowledge of it would appear if he willed it, and then he would move on like dead people were supposed to, and maybe he'd even meet his father once he got there - wherever 'there' was.

…That was a lot of maybes.

Evan carded a hand through his hair, and looked down on himself (his ghost self, not his former body). He was wearing his Death Eater robes, the same frayed and soiled ones his body was dressed in. ''Oh lovely,'' he lamented. ''This is just dandy. Not only am I dead, but I'm also wearing the terrorist uniform anyone with half a brain can recognise. And it's also dirty and torn. How unexpectedly nice of the gods. Well hardy hah hah. I'm not bloody laughing.'' Surprisingly, his outburst of sarcasm didn't make him feel any better.

He was starting to feel stupid, just standing there. Perhaps if he could sit down he wouldn't look too much like a half-hysterical, recently deceased Death Eater? Well, a man could hope. Carefully prodding his corpse with a hesitant finger, he tried against all hope to see if it would pass through. It did.

Evan had always been a bit of a scholar, even though his interests lay more in the direction of causing fear and mayhem than in researching magical theory. Even so, having grown up in a pureblood family, he knew well enough that ghosts could physically interact with the world around them on some level. Anyone with half a brain knew this after seeing the Grey Lady sit in on the Arithmancy lessons, diligently taking notes with very corporeal quill. Which meant that - oh no. Please, anyone but him.

''I'm dead.'' he tasted the words slowly. ''I'm here. And I'm not a ghost.'' Somehow, the opportunity to not look stupid anymore didn't seem all that appealing. He would rather not sit down, thank you very much. He'd probably pass right through, and it might prove too stressful on him, since he really didn't fancy the idea of a panic attack at this time. ''I'm not a ghost,'' he repeated. ''So what the fuck am I?!''

It was more than a little depressing that not even the birds were disturbed by his shout. Weren't they supposed to have some sort of incredible hearing, or something? Or maybe he was just too dead to be heard even by the birds. Fuck it all. Evan really hated logic sometimes.

''Can I still use magic?'' he wondered for a moment, before ruffling through his robes in search of a wand. (Not the wand, because his first wand was broken by his Lord as punishment for not following orders, and his second one got broken in a raid. The one he was using at the time of his death was pilfered from the corpse of that Dearborn fellow, and though it resisted him at times, it served him well enough in most things.) But… there was no wand, broken or otherwise. Which was rather strange considering he had died holding his wand.

He huffed on a laugh, and if he sounded a bit demented, who could blame him? Closing his eyes and rubbing his temples, Evan tried to think of a solution - really, any solution would do. He was dead. He wasn't a ghost. He didn't have a wand. His situation seemed to get better and better with every passing second.

Could he… leave? He didn't fancy the thought of remaining at the site of his death forever, and there were people who would mourn him. His mother, for one. She would definitely be broken-hearted when she learned that her only child was dead, and if he could help her somehow, show up and have her know that he wasn't in pain, that he wasn't afraid anymore… Maybe he could make amends and earn her forgiveness.

There he goes again with the maybes. But still, the thought of going home ignited something within him, a longing, an ache, a bone-deep grief for something he had gleefully given up such a long time ago… Hiraeth, he recognised, he was feeling hiraeth, and… He just wanted to go home. It was a sickening realisation, because he would never be able to go home, not now, not after he was killed. He didn't deserve to go home either, not if he only wanted it once all other doors were closed to him.

''I really am that fucked up, aren't I?'' he murmured to himself, and then, to his great shame, felt something hot and constricting in his throat. Damn it all. He hadn't cried in years, and now - no, he wouldn't cry now. What was it that Wilkes used to say? Laugh it off? Evan choked out a wet chuckle, but it didn't help him any. His eyes were still burning. ''Damn it. Damn.''

He stayed there for a while, just looking at his body, trying to think of something to do now. He only snapped out of his melancholy when the Aurors arrived. That bastard Moody had come for his corpse, and Evan felt a stab of vicious pride when he saw the disfigured nose the man was now sporting. He had done that. The wound was clean now, and slathered in some sort of balm, but he could still remember the rivers of blood flowing down the Auror's face only scant hours ago.

''Rosier, eh?'' Moody nudged his body with the tip of his boot, and Evan snarled at him even though the Auror wouldn't be able to see it. That was his bloody body there! His! That fucking Ministry lapdog had no right to be disrespecting it like that. Moody, unknowing of Evan's fury, lit a cigarette (such a disgusting muggle habit; Evan would never understand why some chose to indulge in it) and exhaled a cloud of smoke. ''Should have turned yourself in, you idiot brat. No honour in dying in a ditch, like a dog.''

Yeah right. As if Evan had done it because of honour, or some other stupid shit like that. Better to die fighting than spend a lifetime in Azkaban; he still held to that. Surprisingly, the memory of the horrible prison lifted his spirit. Yes, he had been right from the start: better dead than in the constant presence of Dementors.

''Sir?'' the baby Auror following Moody around like a lost puppy flinched when Moody's eyes landed on her, but bravely forged on anyway. ''Are there any others around here?'' she asked, and then her words started coming faster and slurring together. ''At the mission desk they said they didn't know, but that we should -''

''Spare me the chatter, Young.'' Moody barked at her, scowling. Evan was pretty sure he was only being that rough because the baby Auror was asking him so timidly. Say what you will about Moody, but he was one tough bastard. ''There aren't any others here. If there were, we'd know it by now.''

Oh sure, they'd know it. Evan wanted to cackle at the man's arrogance. Death Eaters weren't just random riff-raff picked up from the street; they were trained extensively over a course of several years, and there were many that could give Moody, Scrimgeour or Longbottom a run for their money. Still, Moody wasn't completely wrong in his opinion. Death Eaters that got sent out on raids the most were the young recruits like Evan used to be not that long before, and they usually went with the 'fire first, ask questions later' approach. Evan could bashfully admit that he was one of those hot-headed ones.

Moody tossed his cigarette on the ground and stepped on it. ''Well, that's that, then. Young, make sure that Savage and Williamson don't get themselves killed via Bowtruckle or something. You,'' he snapped his fingers at a tired-looking Healer, ''pack up the bodies, and don't forget to clean up after you're done.''

''S-sir?'' Young stuttered, casting frightened looks at the other two Aurors, who were probably babies like her. ''What will you be doing?''

''What do you think, Young? I'm going to look for the masks and wands.''

Evan perked up. His wand! He fell into step with Moody as the man made his rounds around the battlefield, going in slowly expanding circles as he searched. Moody was kind of a bore, once he didn't have a wand in his hand.

''You know,'' Evan told him, ''I thought you'd be… I don't know… More interesting than this? You're such an old man, Moody. I'm disappointed. The way people talk about you… Man, I thought I'd be coming face to face with a demon, or something. But you… It was really fucking easy to cut off your nose, you know.''

And it was the truth. Among the Death Eaters, Alastor Moody was thought of as a legend, a monster in his own right. No one could survive facing the Dark Lord on several occasions and come out of it alive, let alone as whole as Moody had. Evan had painted a picture of Moody inside his head, had crafted an image of what the man would be like when Evan finally faced him. But Moody… He wasn't what Evan had expected. Oh, he was strong, and fast, and as cunning as an old dragon, but… He was also… Less, somehow. He was human, where Evan had been expecting a god. It was surprisingly disappointing.

Moody, of course, didn't know he was being tailed (which answered the question if Evan could be seen) and didn't even twitch when Evan started amusing himself by poking his hand through Moody's face. The grizzled Auror lit another cigarette, and for the first time since he was old enough to know what was being done, Evan wondered what it would feel like to smoke. Figures he would only get curious once he was unable to sate the curiosity.

To avenge his miserable existence, Evan started insulting his killer in the most imaginative ways he could think of. ''You imbecilic cretin, you look like a half-plucked, mangled chicken and have the senses of a dead and beaten horse!'' He was particularly proud of that one, because it both offended Moody and made Evan's situation seem as not his own fault. It was, after all, Moody who couldn't see him.

Eventually, even messing with Moody got boring, and that was really something, since Evan thought that cursing like a Mudblood whore at the Ministry's most decorated Auror would never stop being funny. At this point, Evan drifted away from Moody and returned to his body.

The Healer was almost done inspecting his body. He was waving his wand around the corpse in a show of bright green. ''Multiple cuts on the limbs and torso… Deep tissue bruising… Broken bones, from several years ago, healed now…'' It was all pretty boring. ''Scarring on the underside of fingers…''

''Oh yeah, those,'' Evan hummed as he inspected the twin scars on his palms. ''I got these during Quidditch, you know,'' he told the Healer conversationally. ''It was my turn to catch the Quaffle, and then that prick Selwyn tossed the Bludger in a curve, right at me. And you know those bloody menaces get scratched from how often they beat them with the bats. I was third year then, you know, it was my first year on the team. Wanted to prove myself, I suppose. So I caught the Quaffle, sent it on to Avery, and then caught the fucking Bludger. With my hands. Damn, but did that hurt. My fingers got caught on the ridges of the fucker. Blood everywhere. Broke all the bones in my right hand. The Captain had to call for a ten minute break. That was the angriest I'd ever seen him.''

The Healer, of course, didn't hear him. ''The killing wound… A Slicing Hex to the neck.''

Evan groaned. ''You're not supposed to remind me of that, you know? It's rude, or I'm pretty sure it is. And it's embarrassing. I mean, I dodge fucking curses all the time, the nasty stuff like Blood-Boilers and Gut-Expellers just pass me by, and then I die of a bloody Slicing Hex. Merlin, I used to prank my cousins with that.''

The light show died down, the Healer lowering his wand. ''All in all, in poor health at the time of death,'' he declared, and Evan wanted to punch the bastard.

''I feel like you're ignoring me,'' he said, watching as his body got wrapped up in pale sheets, ''and I think you're missing my point. You were being rude. You're supposed to apologise.''

The Healer didn't apologise.

All Evan got to do was watch as his body was levitated along with Wilkes', and follow along as the Healer made his way away from the Aurors. ''I'm returning now,'' the Healer informed Young. ''Tell Auror Moody that I'm taking the body with me.'' And then, the Healer apparated away.

Evan was fully prepared to go back to his former entertainment of Moody Mocking, but was suddenly whisked away. It felt like forced double apparition, only worse. The sensation of breathless nausea was abruptly painted in a much more disturbing light now that he had no body that would feel those things. He regained his breath to find himself at St Mungo's, inside a morgue and next to the same Healer who had diagnosed his cause of death.

''I really hate you!'' he howled at the man once he was relatively certain he wouldn't get to find out what was inside a dead person's ghostly stomach. ''That was horrible, you rat-faced arse!''

The Healer still didn't hear him. Evan let loose a wordless scream of rage and lunged at him, but, as he knew he would, he passed through the Healer like - like a ghost. Another confirmation of his status as 'newly deceased' didn't sit well with him. ''I should kill you, you bastard! How can you - gahh!''

All he could do was watch as his body got laid out on a table and cut open, his intestines coming out in a parody of a surprise toy inside of candies, his heart being cut out and stored in a bloody jar. And the worst part was that the Healer didn't even enjoy it! If the whole process had brought the man some pleasure or something, Evan would have let it go. He had seen his dear cousin Bella cut open people while they were still alive, and it had never bothered him if he didn't have to get too close to the blood. But at least Bella liked to play with bodies like that, which Evan could understand. This Healer - he wasn't feeling anything about cutting Evan's body apart! It was just a formality to him! And that… That hurt.

''People have to come and identify my body, you freak!'' he screamed furiously at the man. ''My mother has to come and identify me! What are you going to do - show her my severed head? Maybe the kidney you're putting away in a jar like pickled herring?''

His mother would break completely if she saw Evan's body being disrespected like this. She still followed the old gods, so the dead were sacred to her. Even if Evan had never held the same beliefs, he knew how much it would hurt her to see her son treated like the corpse of some animal, chopped up and stored away, as if he was nothing more than a slab of venison.

But he could do nothing about it. He was dead. Evan slumped on the ground and covered his eyes. ''I don't want to, I don't want to, I don't want to…'' he chanted. It was childish to pretend he was just having a nightmare, and it wouldn't help him any, but he just… wanted it all to go away.

He wasn't sure how much time passed, but certainly enough for the Healer (or better yet, the Butcher) to go away. Evan slowly uncurled from his place on the floor, only now noticing that he had managed to sit without sinking. Small victory it may be, but it lifted Evan's spirit.

Not willing to stay inside a morgue, he looked for a way out. The door was closed, and there were no windows. With an exhausted growl, he went through the wall instead. It was a strange feeling to be sure, but infinitely better than being yanked around by his body. (And that was another point he would have to revisit: apparently, he was bound to his remains, which was not at all good or useful.)

He found himself in an empty corridor, all the doors he could see closed. He would have to go upwards, if his general knowledge of St Mungo's layout was correct. Could he fly like ghosts do? ''Well, only one way to find out.'' he told himself.

Turns out he could, indeed, fly, or rather float. When he came out, he was at the reception area of the hospital, surrounded by a whole group of people with disturbing health issues. It made him feel comparatively glad he was dead when he saw a woman covered in grey scales. Ugh, snakes. Yes, better dead than with the looks of a snake.

''Now to find something interesting…'' If he was bound to his body, then eventually he would end up in a graveyard, with no one to see and nothing to do. Best to take all chances of coming across something worthwhile while he still could. However, St Mungo's wasn't all that intriguing once he gave it a thorough sweep through. Healers, patients, patients, visitors, patients, Healers... It was all rather boring after the third time he had made the round.

And then…

''Oh dear me. You aren't supposed to be here.''

#

 **So, this is Evan-centric, meaning it revolves around Evan Rosier and his character. This isn't finished yet, but it should be around 15k words long. Don't worry, I know where I'm going with this.**


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